And Let the Ashes Lay Where They Lay: RIP Joe, Finally

Well, my husband has finally been put to rest.

It was like explosion after explosion. Craziness had run away with my stomach to pray at the porcelain God out my asshole too many times. I should have had the toilet christened with Holy water before the burial.
Just about five fucking years of life gone by... Took two years to get his ashes and only got half, but I think I got the better half anyways. My ass needed a serious debate with cotton and satin after all of this. I think it deserves its own burial now.


At any rate, my husband had served in the USCG and the US Army. He was a proud son of a complete bitch and that's just the way it was. He is survived by 5 asshole brothers who blamed me for his PTSD hanging and they're all in denial, the lot of ex-wife beating, arrogant drunks. But fuck 'em. They can blow the other half of the ashes out their holes. It's over and there was actually a decent funeral this time.


Being the wife, I should have received the flag and some dignity during the full honor guard military funeral procession, but they took the "show" away and babbled on like retarded monkeys with no respect for my husband. It was blasphemous as they didn't even have a priest and I don't even believe in Catholics.


This time was very different. It was quiet. There was no reverie. No motorcycle bands, no after party, no drunks or druggies. It was civil and I was shocked at what I received. There were things most unexpected like a wanker using the methane at the local landfill for a terrorist methane bomb. I would not expect that either, although I contemplate the explosions.


I held onto that heavy plastic container filled with the better half of my husband and the death certificate at the trailer where Father Ralph soon greeted me, my Mother and Stepfather. He was most respectful and kind. I saw strong looking men; they looked like they were honorable in their U.S. Air Force dress uniforms. What were they doing there? Who's procession were they going to? Must have been someone really important. They were wearing top notch gear with white gloves reminiscent of bygone days from fairy tales in my feeble mind.


The director of the National Cemetery came out to greet us and told us to bring the better half of my husband's ashes, and the flowers and hop in the buggy and follow him to the section 2 area. It was a gazebo structure where they held the funeral ceremonies. Father Ralph was already on his way. Mr. Director took the death certificate and soon we were off going down familiar roads that I didn't think were so familiar at first. Then I saw the curve in the road and remembered that place where all the hoopla went down the first time. I tried not to think about it. There was too much vulgarity. What a joke. Not a funny one either.


We reached our destination: Section 2. It was a peaceful covered outdoor building and the grass couldn't be greener if someone painted it.


Father Ralph had us come forward and enter and there were the three men who were dressed so eloquently from the Air Force and there was a bugle on the ground. Could it be? Nah. Why? An honor guard? Yes, it was! My eyes started to tear up, but I held a firm upper lip and my shoulders were higher than usual as my ass was clenched tight as well. Nerves. It was good though. Finally Joe would be resting in peace and my daughter really would have a place to visit Daddy. She is 9 now.


Father Ralph made Catholicism look beautiful that day. The songs of prayer made me teary eyed and I felt peace sweep over me and longing for times that are gone forever. But, this was good. This was the final chapter. Joe could finally rest in peace and I can go on knowing that I did the right thing for my daughter and myself as well as the rest of our family. Never mind the arrogant 5 brothers. This is sacred. They don't even know.


After the Holy water was sprinkled and the prayers were sung and the Amens were said, the 2 of 3 honor guards marched under the roof and stood in front of us with a folded flag. They unfolded it in an almost robot-like fashion, their eyes locked, flag being placed in ways of perfection. Then the refolded in the same orderly way. When they completed their task, the bugler played Taps. It was beautiful and sad. That song always makes me weep now. I sometimes hate having feelings. It makes me angry, but this time it was beautiful. For the first time in years it actually felt cleansing.


After the bugler finished, one honor guard stood in front of me, saluted me, and did kneel right in front of my shiny facade. He thanked my husband and me and gave me the dignified flag they had so neatly folded and  on behalf of my husband's service to the country in the name of the President of the United States of America. Then he stood up after I thanked him. The two honor guards saluted me again and marched away and the bugler joined them in procession. I could hear the even click clacking of their shiny, black polished dress shoes fade away as they left. I was left in awe and tears. My Mother was dabbing at her eyes and my Stepfather was bowing his head.


This was true respect for Joe. It was respect for me and my daughter. I couldn't believe what had just taken place. I didn't ask for it. All I had asked for was a few prayers as my husband had been a Catholic, and I don't believe in those things.


The director came up to me after we cleared the watery eyes and hugged. He told me he oversaw the first funeral and saw that I got a raw deal being the next of kin. He couldn't believe the lack of respect for my husband and that the flag was given to Joe's estranged son. There had been no consideration for me, Joe's wife. He also told me that the other half of the ashes would never ever be allowed to lay rest in any military cemetery and the arrogant brothers had no rights. I am the next of kin. The fools blamed me for my husband's hanging. The director gave me the utmost respect and he knew that I didn't expect this honor, but he made things right. What a compassionate fellow. I thanked him and Father Ralph and hugged each of them.


I was reminded a couple of times of the director's respect for the dead and the living. I saw so much compassion. It got to me. It was good. It was peaceful and now I know that if there is a Heaven, Joe can be at peace and I can move on more every day. This will help me and my family.


As Joe always said, "tough as nails." And in the military: ALWAYS FORWARD! HOO-AH!


Thank you to my family, friends and all the people in my life who have helped me along the way. A little compassion goes a long way.


Just like that squeezable Charmin toilet paper with a compassionate coupon, it's worth it. It saves a lot of money and it's kind our asses.

After 9/11/11..... My Daughter and Me and Our Wonderful Day

On 9/11/11 my daughter, Anna, and I joined up with my sister, niece, and a couple of their family members and friends at the local parade for Windmill Weekend. It was fun to watch the kids get excited for the parade as we settled our bottoms onto the sidewalk and gave them each a plastic bag for flying candy coming from the parade floats.

A couple of the older children were watching the Ipod, but the two youngest, Anna and my niece's cousin, ages 8 and 6 respectively, were readying themselves for what they were going to do and say to get the most candy in their bags. They patiently awaited the parade as cars from out of state kept the highway open and delayed all of the action.

We reminded the kids to cover their ears as the sirens on the fire trucks, ambulances and police cars would be the first vehicles out! Smoky the Bear would be riding on one of our town's fire engine's!

My daughter kept yelling that she was excited for the men in skirts with the big sacks of skin... that would be the men in kilts with the bagpipes. They always bring me into a peaceful and sometimes somber place, but I love their music nonetheless. Of course after my Anna's yells, the 6 year old had to yell for men in skirts too! It was funny! Then the boy kept making gestures with his arm for trucks to honk their horns and finally a big tour bus let out a big noisy honk and that soon evaporated as the smell of diesel passed by us low-sitters on the sidewalk. Most days you wouldn't dare sit anywhere close to this highway, let alone try to cross it! It's known for being a dangerous road with many accidents in its history, but today is special. Today is Windmill Weekend's day of the parade. It has also been 10 years since the tragedy of 9/11.

Today is the 10 year anniversary of the planes crashing into the World Trade Center Buildings, one nearly crashing into the Pentagon and one that altered its course on the way to the White House. It was September 11th, 2001. Terrorists had plotted something evil and had taken over the air. My husband was activated that day and got to see the fighter jets take off from Otis Air Force Base on Cape Cod where he was stationed.

I'm sure many of us can remember where we were and what we were doing when all of this happened. I was just arriving at work and the television was on. It was a little fence company and I asked if what I was seeing was a joke and noticed that when my bosses looked up, no one was laughing. Disbelief was what I felt.... how could this be happening? In our country? To our people???? How?

I know that many people lost loved ones in the World Trade Center buildings, in the rubble of the aftermath of explosions, from heroic acts to save people from the attacks, from the planes that went down, trying to protect our country while fighting terrorists on a plane, and further down the road at war. No one can replace these heroes, these loved ones, but we can honor their memories. We can honor and love the survivors and learn to be tolerant.
We can go down the road in hate and want retribution that is killing our own at war and in our own streets, or we can open our minds and hearts and fill them with love. I prefer the latter choice.

As I watched the children during the parade, eyes lighting up, cheering the more the adults cheered, I felt a tenderness toward all of them. I felt like we were all akin. I felt protective, yet I knew I had to let them live and be as free as they could be. Go grab the candy kids and if you can't get it, I will get it for you! They loved the old cars and the floats with the sharks on them. It's exciting to see sharks on floats these days as the great white sharks have become a new delight as they have started to dine more and more on fat seals on the ocean side of our Cape Cod. We all shouted out, 'Go sharks,' whenever we saw one of those floats! No one cheered for the National Seashore's piping plover. It probably tasted like chicken anyway. That's another controversy I will not get into right now.

It was exciting to see the children cheer for the bands and smile and wave at them with their American flags proudly waving. They clapped and cheered and probably didn't understand that this is the America that I want them to love. This is the place I want them to be able to live in and enjoy their freedom in without the threat of terrorism. I will never stop being vigilant, but I will not stop living ever again.

After the parade with the floats, dancing, singing, bands, and big official vehicles as well as oldsters, we carefully crossed the highway and headed toward our cars. Cousins hugged, my sister and I hugged, we all told each other how much we loved one another and promised to see everyone very soon, and we will! Life is too short to waste time on not seeing family and friends.

My daughter and I proceeded to drive to the Provincelands instead of going to the Windmill Square and see people from her school and people I don't really care to see. I just don't do well with people. Today was about finding peace. Since her Dad's death in 2007, after his exposure to the war from 2002 to 2003, finding peace for the two of us has been vital, as well as keeping an odd sense of humour about us.

We found the National Seashore's Beech Forest Trail pretty much the way we find it every year. It was sunny and in the mid 70s and the animals were afoot on the trails. Between the flora and the fauna, I'm not sure which was more exciting! Since my girl's stay at the Audubon Camp, she showed me plants and animal habitats she learned about. She even showed me the "chicken finger" shaped leaves of the Sassafrass trees and how they tasted if you sucked on the step of a leaf. She was very proud of all she had learned and expressed her desire to go back and learn more about this place we call home.

We saw voles, chipmunks, spiders, geese, robins, crows, seagulls, squirrels, and young painted turtles. My girl learned the difference between the black and white oak, pointed leaves verses rounded, both being part of the beech family. One of our favorite parts of the trail is when the pond is still alongside us, but the hill slopes higher and the moss starts to form, fungus springing to life.... toadstools for fairies or elves to use as furniture or some other ware. This is the magical beech forest and no one can deny the woodland creatures' existence. It's magical here. The beech trees were looming over us and their leaves coverered the trail. The sun filters through the canopy of their tree tops and leads us on our way. The sprites must be playing as berries fall off trees precariously as we walk. We spy an occasional blue jay and off it flies!

I tell my dearest Anna of the days when I walked her in the three-wheeler jogging stroller, lifting it up each step as we climb higher and higher up the trail. Then I tell her how she turns the same way every year on the trail.... she cannot remember, but someday she will and she'll show me the whole way I tell her. We climb up the sandy hill off trail and suddenly we're in a desert-like scape.

It is sandy hills, scrub oaks, scrub pines, what looks like ephedra plants, and strange flowers. Before we find a shady place to rest and snack upon watermelon and other tasty morsels, she spies the Provincetown Monument, our next stop! Then we look knowingly into each other's eyes and hug! We are love and the grounding has happened as we have found our way back to the essence of our true selves and that love that cannot be undone. We are both smiling and off she goes doing cartwheels in the desert-like sands! Hurrah! We have found what we came for!!!

After our refreshing snack and beautiful viewings, we find our way back to the beech forest and come upon the landing on the other side of the trail where we can see the water lilies up close. The first Anna notices is the two young painted turtles sunning themselves on a log near our little seating area. I manage to take another picture, nearly falling into the shallows, featuring these two amphibious beauties chronicling our photo journal. We stay for a short time and sun ourselves like the turtles. Ah, youth! The Monument is still in sight as it sits so high above us.

Finally, we have finished the trail. No geese have hissed at us, although we have seen them do that to other humans before, as was well as the turkeys last year. Don't feed the wildlife I think to myself. We change into our flip flops and drive the scenic route to the Pilgrim Monument.

This is our annual journey to the Monument. It's not so much about seeing the museum, but being in something so old and strong, 100 years old, and being able to climb it together with speed and agility. The Monument is a testament of time and great craftsmanship. We are two of millions who have climbed this mighty place, protected by gargoyles, who stands so tall and like a fortresss storm after mighty storm. Then to see the views from the top! WOW! I take pictures of my Anna and then she takes some of me. After that I get some pictures of her bunny sitting cautiously close to the window with bars. It should be a good picture of her stuffed bunny with a spectacular view of MacMillan Wharf.

On our way down the Monument we both let out big burps, then guffaws as we excuse ourselves. Then I just can't help myself as I caw like a crow a few times as it seems so appropriate. Echoes follow us. I take a picture of Anna in front of our Town's Block in the tower. She's smiling and holding that bunny proudly.

At the bottom of the tower we find comfy seats and relax for a bit. It's so peaceful and the wind is perfectly cool enough. It has been a warm day and the coolness of the height above didn't cool me down. Once again we look into each other's eyes, reflecting love, and come together to hug. This has been a very good day. Soon we must drive home, cook a pizza, eat and then get ready for bed as school starts so very early the next day.

I take one last picture of the Monument. I take it looking up at the American flag at half mast and I can see all the way to the top of the Pilgrim Monument just at it touches the blue sky. This will be a picture and a day to remember. It is the exact opposite of the day I remember 10 years ago. Today has been life affirming and full of love and it has been without fear. I will take as many days like this as I can.

If tomorrow is nice after school, perhaps we'll drive down to Nauset Light Beach and play chicken in the waves.

I will never forget 9/11. Bless everyone who survived and everyone who lost someone to this tragedy whether it was on this day, war related, or anything else. Bless all those who are still at war and their families for their sacrifices. Thank you.

Let us all learn to live, laugh and love.  Peace.

Going Off Drugs and Feeling Like Hacking People Apart: The DT System & Aggression

My shrink just took me off my 150 mg. of Wellbutrin XR about a week ago. The first day was okay. The second day was crappy. By the third day, after taking my other antidepressant, Klonopin, etc., I was a little bit more edgy than I thought I should be, and I was already feeling more depressed.

I had to drive my daughter to an outing and the traffic is horrendous where I live in the summer. This day seemed to be worse than usual with the traffic backed up way further than my wedgie!

At any rate, we made it on time with by starting extra early on our trip and I kissed her goodbye for the day.

I had to venture back toward home, or rather, wanted to, and so being the nifty local that I am, I took back roads. It's good to know most of the back roads when you live on a small man-made island that is a tourist trap and you feel foxed in.

My mind was feeling that old, familiar mind-zapping feel that I usually get when I have to discontinue a medication or start slowly weening from it. This caused me more anxiety as little electrical shocks to the brain became more frequent. This is not an activity that I chose to have done while driving or ever. Not to top it, but the traffic on the back roads was backing up here, ding dongs were driving under the speed limit, failing to yield when they should, and did not understanding that you have to pass bicyclists even on winding roads. My patience was being tested and I already have issues with major depression and anxiety.

This was not a good time to me or anyone around me. Rage was setting in.

Despite the test of strength and stability, I made it to my pharmacy. I had some questions about being taken off of my Wellbutrin!

Before I pulled into the parking lot, I let a couple cars go in and out of the parking lot, but not a soul let me into the lot. That really put a wrench up my ass. I was so freaking nice! After I pulled into my parking space and took a couple deep breaths, I got out of the car and yelled at the top of my lungs, "I HATE PEOPLE, I HATE THIS PLACE, I HATE YOU ALL!!!!" Then I calmly proceeded to walk into the pharmacy.

I spoke with my pharmacist and explained to him how I had just been taken off of my Wellbutrin and was feeling homicidal and had come from a long and anxiety provoking drive that may have produced a "tad  bit" of road rage. He told me to try to get home safely, take another Klonopin, and relax. At first he had thought I said "suicidal," but after he had realized what I had said he didn't seem as concerned. It was then that I knew that feeling homicidal must be a more normal state of mind on this tourist trap than I realized.

So, loving the place I live and hating the traffic, feeling all homicidal, head being zapped with electricity, I drove home like a maniac, and started up the leaf blower after taking 1 mg. of Klonopin. There's nothing like 230 hp worth of air coming out a tube that you can power up quickly that blows sound waves like nothing! I needed that!

Every little pile of weeds and other plant trash I had raked up earlier in the week (even the old wet piles) were being blow into oblivion while maniacal laughter followed. It was a whirling dervish of leaves, wet and soggy things no one wants to touch or smell, pine needles, dog shit most likely, and dry stuff. I was having such a great time with my twisted smile making mini-tornadoes blowing them up into the air and then across the dirt road. It was exactly what the doctor ordered. I was feeling some relief even though the zaps were still very intense.

I kept at it for over an hour.

Then, as I was making hurricanes down the road, I suddenly felt an ominous presence..... there was a car about two feet away from me. It had been sitting there directly behind me. No common sense. I was in the middle of the road with this deafening machine blasting and these people could not have warned me (one has PTSD and should not be sneaked up on) were right behind me!!! Not only that, but they were from out of state! Why didn't they beep down the road? Why didn't they give a warning??? Did they want to scare the last fuck out of me??? What the fuck was their problem? Did they know that I was feeling homicidal, yet I was calming down? How fucking stupid were they????

I looked at them and knew that my rational self disappeared completely. I had evil lurking in me. I put my gun up in the air, turned myself to the side, peered at them with menacing eyes, and let them pass. Right after their little asses got by me, I took my 230 hp worth of wind and blew shit all over their car!!! "AND STAY THE FUCK OUT OF MY NEIGHBORHOOD YOU FUCKING HO BAGS... FUCK HOLES, FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING BAGS OF SHIT MUNG FUCKER FUCKS, DON'T COME BACK OR I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU YOU FUCKING FUCKS I'LL CHOP YOUR HEADS OFF AND BLOW THEM INTO THE WOODS FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU!!!!," etc. Luckily, the leaf blower was on high when I was yelling all of this as they high tailed it out of my quiet (yeah right!) little dirt road neighborhood very quickly.

After this I had to restart my ritual blowing. I needed to calm down again. Those tourons probably needed to start seeing a shrink now. I could give them a business card for mine, but I didn't think I would see them again. They certainly got a blow job that day. I know, bad humor!
Later, after doing all of that work and having the insanity cut through and affect others again, I realized how truly fearful I am. The only thing that seems to make me feel less fearful when I'm going through these brain zaps and withrawal symptoms as well as triggered PTSD rages, is anger and hard work.
This frightens me. It is part of mental illness and I hate it.

My therapist told me to try to remember how the anger "feels" physiologically. Well, I feel pain in my chest and pressure. I have butterflies in my stomach. I feel shaky. My breathing feels more labored and is heavy. My heart feels like it's pounding so hard it might explode and sometimes my legs feel like they'll give out. My head feels like it's pulsating with some kind of weird energy and it changes. I still have the head zaps as I go through the withdrawal that my shrink said I would not go through and I am feeling even more edgy and depressed. I feel stronger physically.... it's got to be the adrenaline and the fight/flight thing. It hurts mentally and physically. Sometimes when I get past the flight feeling... I feel like I am the strongest animal in the world. I hate that.
Today I really didn't feel like being a part of this world. Right now I am coming to the total conclusion of what I already knew. I am NOT insane and I'm still not. I have mental illness and I'm being treated and that is my choice. I want to make my life and my daughter's better. Luckily she hasn't seen me like this and I have had lots of rages. So far the only one who has been hurt has been me.

I guess another huge conclusion that I have come to is that my family is not my support system, but my commity of critics. I get cut down constantly by them for being creative, thinking outside the box, for mothering my daughter creatively, and so on and so on.

My sister is not my best friend. I cannot tell her anything. My Mother is still trying to manipulate my daughter to tell me to do things like paint my car one color. It backfired. I removed the beautiful paintings on my car one day because my daughter finally spit out what my Mother wanted her too after my pressuring. I showed her the car without the paint after she finished a program and she cried and told me that her Mima put her up to it. She begged me to put the paintings back on our car. I have started that process.

My Sister is concerned that I'm drawing too much attention to myself with my car the way it is and that I'm doing strange things raising my daughter. She is afraid that I will have another mental breakdown or that I am crazy. Well, maybe if she lost her husband who had come back from the war and had lost her home, way of life, had to start over, had the IRS after her, was fighting another government agency as well, and trying to raise a young child without a father who had PTSD, etc., she might have a breakdown too.

But, that was awhile ago now. That's over. I'm not sure what she's talking about now. If taking walks with my daughter on the beach, educating her about nature and being responsible, taking her to recreation, signing her up for a week of Audubon, biking with her, playing with her, letting her have and go on playdates and laughing about farts, etc. is too strange, as well as taking her to the doctor's when I think she has an injury is crazy, call the staff at Cape Psyche!!!

The same goes for my Dad.... he's not sure if I'm capable of traveling to Florida with all of my agoraphobia issues, etc. I just heard this from my Sister. I told her I'd take an extra Klonopin. Then she asked me if I thought I could function being on so many drugs. All I could do is laugh and tell her that it would be under control. I let her know taht I would not enjoy being in a big crowded airport one bit, but I would do it to get my little girl to Florida to see her Grandparents. Then she asked me if I would let her down and if I was really sure I could do it. She must have asked me over 3 times! She even asked me if I could get my own car to Boston. I assured her that it would be done. She said that she was afraid that I would disappoint "her neice." I told her taht I wouldn't be doing Disney, but I would get myself and my darling daughter to Fllorida no matter what.

So, I will continue working on my PTSD workbook, keep creating new madalas and other works of art to relax, try to avoid trigger situations, see my shrink for my medicational treatment, and keep my mouth shut around family. I will raise my daughter the best I know how and love her more than anyone or anything in the world as I have since I knew she was in my womb.

So to all those assholes who can't have some tolerance for people with mental illness, disabilities, people who are trying their hardest to fit into a world that is hard and scary, who are trying to make it easier for their children, you can fuck yourselves up the asshole with barbed wire until it comes out your fucking mouths.

To the rest of you, I bid you much love and many blessings. We all walk a road marked with challenges and share many of them, yet alone. I hope that I may be of help with my ramblings or maybe help you as you stumble or cheer you on as you pick yourself back up. That's what I would like from my friends when I find them.

Until then, don't give up, try your best, and try not to be so hard on yourself because the critics are already out there..... Much love & light to you.

OSAMA BIN LADEN IS DEAD.......

SSG Joseph J. Mullin, Husband, Father, Hero & Friend to Many

Osama bin Laden was killed by U.S. Navy Seals on Sunday, May 1st, 2011. I found this out via Yahoo! News on Monday, the day after. Wow!

What initially seemed like a relief struck a very loud chord for me and many others. It brought memories back.... a flood of memories. It brought to me a great sadness and great anger.

I am glad that that bastard terrorist is dead. I'm glad that he died violently. That is the only way he should have died (just like the camel spider, Hussein). All of the Al Qaida terrorists and others should die for the grisly murders.. millions of people they have killed and tortured.

I still cannot stop thinking about my husband. I can't stop thinking about 9/11... September 11th, 2001. Bin Laden and his group were pissed that the U.S. got the defense contract with his native country, Saudi Arabia, and he was doing something about it. He was going to blow as many Americans as possible up in one place.. mostly Jews according to resources "they" say. He was going to blow up the Pentagon, the Capitol Building and all of these places and people via our commercial planes by hijacking them and making suicide missions.

Well, his plans succeeded. His haters in this country and he had coordinated the most devastating plan of attack on continental U.S. soil ever!

I am so saddened and angered by what the people on those commercial flights endured before they crashed into the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and other places. I can't stand the fact that so many people died in those buildings and that so many people who tried to rescue them died. Osama's plan worked so well. It was a disaster for our country on so many levels. It left us unprepared, confused, dazed, in fear everywhere we went, saddened, angered, and on and on. How could someone do this to us? How could this fucking happen to the people of the United States of America???

And then there was Bush.... sending our troops to Iraq to find weapons of mass destruction (WMD). There weren't any to be found. My husband, part of the 180th Engineers Utility Detachment went over to the middle east right before Christmas in 2002. He was activated right after we were married and left for Fort Drum, NY in October. I was pregnant and he was leaving.

Why were we going to Iraq? Why were we not chasing after the mastermind of 9/11? Why were we not fighting the Taliban? What was going on? I had to support my husband's mission and I knew that Hussein was evil and believed in genocide of his own people. He was evil and had to be found. In the end he was hiding under the earth like a camel spider.

My husband told me how he had to shake out his desert boots for fear of camel spiders and scorpions as they were both poisonous. Makes sense. There were other things to be feared though. Mortar fire, mines, air fire fights, IEDs (improvised explosive devices), etc. To make it worse, they were engineers and had to blow up bridges whether they were occupied or not. They had to search for mines. They were builders, engineers.... a very tight group who gained much recognition for their hard work and their bravery.

That desert was hot and the winds were brutal. One day I guess it was in the 100s... like over 140 degrees Fahrenheit. How crazy is that. All my husband could do was work, work, work. That was what made the time go by quicker. One day he took in too much water and it was too hot and he fell from where he was building and banged his head up. Later his back was injured on a rocky ride in large Army truck on the way into Iraq. The disks in his lower back were nearly crushed. What's worse is the injuries that no one could see. These are the injurires to his psyche, soul, spirit.... he came home with them and no one seemed to be able to help him.

I wish he could have seen the camel spider, Hussein, captured. I also wish that Bush's intelligence (that's a joke) hadn't lied about WMD. Such bullshit. And we still have troops over in Iraq. So many of our soldiers have died over there or by their own hands back here because they couldn't handle what they experienced. What the fuck is wrong with the U.S. Military? These men and women in my husband's unit came back and were just put right back into civilian life after 2 days of travel back to the base. How fucked up is that? I didn't know that.

My husband came back to a new town, new home and a new baby. I was even different as well as him. He had been highly affected. This war affected him so deeply that he succeeded on his second attempt at taking his own life. This is another ugly side of war and terrorism. Even when he went to the Brockton VA for his first attempt, they only kept him there for 5 days. Can you believe that? 5 days...... there's something wrong with this picture.

Life was very difficult for Staff Sergeant Joseph J. Mullin when he came home to the Cape on August 30th, 2003. How was he supposed to know how to control PTSD? The flashbacks? The rages? Depression, anxiety, panic attacks, fear, jumping at every loud sound like it was a bomb going off? He wasn't the same. Thank you very much Mr. bin Laden.

And thank you Mr. W. Bush and your rich cronies for profiting off of the war and becoming fatter and richer while the economy became worse and worse. Capitalism is great if you're in that 1% who thrive off of violence and have a few large shiny coins falling into your pockets over oil. This goes out to George Sr. too. Not only did we lose our house because of the mortgage scandals as well as many other people, we lost our military support. Jobs are disappearing and the rich are still getting richer because the government is no different then them... the big corporate companies are part of the government. Of course they got bailed out.

Mr. Obama, how are you going to help create jobs? Mr. Devil Patrick? What about the men and women who served and are coming back? Is there anything left for them? What about their families who have sacrificed? Are you thinking of the people who were in those planes that crashed during 9/11? Are you thinking of ground zero and all of those brave people who tried to save the victims and became victims themselves?

It's good that you decided to stay out of the spotlight Mr. W. Bush. I might want to stone you if I were there.

When I look at the plaque on the wall that is in remembrance of my husband's brave service to our country signed by President W. Bush, I cringe and can only think I wish it was you who was dead.

And all I wanted was to be happily married, raise our daughter, deal with regular ol' life together with its ups and downs. That has been robbed from me and my daughter has been robbed as well. She will never have her Daddy again. She was a little over 4 years old when he died. All she has is a few items and some pictures. I will continue to try to keep the memories alive. I just fear the day that I have to tell my daughter
that not only did her Daddy's heart give out, but he took his own life because he was sick from the war.

I pray that all of those who have passed as a result of these terrorists acts may be able to rest in peace forever. I hope that this latest death of a terrorist helps in some way, the victims of terrorism, find some solace. I will pray for all of us.

May all of the terrorists die horrible deaths and be tortured the way they have tortured others for eternity. They do not deserve respect from anyone for mass murder and violent acts. Bin Laden was not a Muslim. He was a murderer of Muslims. Let us not show fear or they have won. Move forward.

HOO-AH!!! I love you, Joe. I'm so sorry.

Never Quite There.... Fooled Again

It seems like whenever I make some progress, life happens. I know life is happening despite my being here or not. I don't get it though. How is it that it seems like there's always a setback? Is it the depression?  No. Maybe. The anxiety is always there. It gets triggered all the time. How do I use all of my "coping tools?" I have done therapy for the greater part of my life and how much more money do I want to put out there?

I get all OCD and and that's that. I'm always fighting for something or other. It can be for my daughter, for our health, wildlife, or just about anything worthy, but it's always there.
Life is always there. If you breathe, you live. But just because you're alive doesn't mean you're living. I feel stuck somewhere in the fog much of the time.

The fog after the movies. The movies started when I was a shy, anxiety ridden teenager with irritable bowel syndrome and PTSD. They were amusing sometimes. They were warped. It was like I was watching myself, only on film. I wasn't participating; the replica was.
When I was 19 I became almost completely agoraphobic and alcohol was my medicine of choice unless I decided to end it. The alcohol made it possible for me to break down my wall and get out amongst others. 

I couldn't handle going out unless it was to work as a chambermaid where no one bothered me and I could sit off by myself on my breaks. I had a few friends, but didn't really do anything too social unless there was a few screwdrivers involved.

I think after I got on some heavy meds after I went for psychiatric and psychological help. That's when things became easier or more manageable. I could go to IHOP and have 5 Ativan and feel like I would make it through the meal without panicking.  After all, who couldn't be a little bit more calm after taking a prescription written for up to 12 1mg. Ativan a day???? My shrink's name was Chance. I think she was a little bit out there, but the Ativan in the diazepam family is something I have held close whether it be Klonopin or something else in that class. Chance seemed like an appropriate and ironic name. I was finally taking a risk; a chance.

I don't know how I made it through middle school and especially high school. I think middle school was hard; getting my period, being awkward, finding out what social status meant and not having the cool clothes or knowing what to say to anyone. I went through a chunky phase and my mother was in perfect shape. That bitch worked at Gloria Stevens, a workout center, and forced me to go there. Bitch! 

I was probably the shyest kid since elementary school and I can even remember having the shits at sleepovers because I was so nervous back then. But high school, wow, that was another story! That was hard! Besides having raw nerves and diarrhea everyday before school and trying to become the skinniest girl in the entire world, where was I? And why did I have to feel this way? How were all the other kids so calm? Why were people calling me a snob? I didn't do anything to them. I was just extremely quiet and kept to myself.

Thank goodness I found some good friends in ALG (alternative Learning group) and was good at art and English. Art was definitely my savior as well as my good friends. There were other people who liked me, but a handful of people "got me." They also had a twisted sense of humor and were victims of sexual abuse or other traumas, but we clicked. They too had some kind of mental disorder even if none of us knew what it was called or how to deal with it besides enjoying the smoking of skunk weed and drinking cheap beer or taking pills. That was the fun part. We partied, were townies, went to the movies, had sleep overs, got drunk at the beach in the summer. It was great!

It was fun to be with my friends. It was great climbing Mt. Lafayette and getting high as the purple haze in the sky sunk below the Green Leaf Hut which was just below the ledge at the top of the mountain. Art was so much fun with Mrs. T. Once I got to Mr. O, I figured that my father's signature would come in handy and I took many trips to Provincetown and Cambridge with my comrades. I finally knew how the system worked after getting busted skipping the first time. The way around it was making sure that Dad was on a business trip and Mom didn't have me and my sis that day. The parents were divorced. That didn't help life anyway since I hated my Mom and Step Dad at that point in my life. Sometimes I still can't stand my Mom. But I still love her.

I was such a good forger, that sometimes I would do a forgery for my friends. I just always made it understood that I was not involved.... they did it if they were busted.

The 20s were difficult. I lived in different places and had to keep tyring different meds to keep me somewhat balanced. I was a hard worker but I wasn't quite right with the anxiety and the depression. It seemed like the PTSD was really hitting me hard. It was especially hard when I was triggered after my boyfriend shot himself in the head. I was a sped teachers aid at the time. That destroyed many friendships and kind of made me lose myself. I wanted to die for a while. I can remember driving my car into sand dunes in Dennis where I lived. I was hospitalized when my brain just did something weird.. maybe it was my blood sugar (hypoglycemia) or shock. I had already shit my pants because my nerves were so shaken by what had happened to my boyfriend and I couldn't believe all of the secrets he had kept from me. I thought we were going to be married and have kids someday. We had so much in common, didn't we? I was in the hospital, climbing the ceiling. I don't remember much more than that except my Mom and Step Dad showed up. I think I was pretty vile. I don't think I went home that night. I think my shrink prescribed Valium or something. Death is very potent stuff.

After the funeral I stayed in bed at my Mom's house and took Valium when it was time and tried to just be numb. It was too much to handle. Too many questions and feelings.... overwhelming. What a waste. I really didn't care anymore. The movie of my life had taken a tragic turn. It was worse than date rapes by past boyfriends. This was an ultimate trespass of trust. This was so fucked up. I was so fucked up. My nerves were like an electrical outlet with no safety cover and someone sticking a fork in me over and over again.

I remember his mother being so angry and blaming my friend for her son's suicide even though it was her son who had pulled the trigger. That woman turned into a monster. I can't blame her as she had lost her child. It must kill a parent to have a child pass before yourself. It must make you crazy. I was angry as well. I was filled with hate for her and him. I would make it a point to spit on his grave and scream obscenities. It made me feel better for a little while. I couldn't believe she had taken the tokens of our love away from that grave. Oh the hate I felt... the rage never quite went away.

Then it was time to try to live again. It was not the same. I was full of tension, but I was also full of invisible balls. It is amazing what an experience can do to a person. The anxiety never left, but I wasn't afraid to be brazen and open my mouth and stand up to anyone now. I didn't give a shit. I didn't give a shit if I died either. I was afraid of that. I needed help. More med changes and therapy.... GAG.

Paxil and Zoloft are the worst in the SSRI category. They make one gain weight and I found that I felt more aggressive and still didn't feel that they helped the anxiety and depression enough. Still, there were many more years of therapy. On and on and on. Oh and the cycle of relationships with the loser boyfriends who managed to be "dreamy" one minute, then "scumbags" the next. Or they ended up violating me in some way. Egadz!

I remember violent emotions. Throwing rocks at some idiot's head as he whizzed by me on his motor bike on a very narrow trail in Brewster while I was living in my Mom's neighborhood. I almost got him. I would have knocked him off of his fucking bike if I had aimed better. Oh, so full of rage.... why didn't anyone else see this? What the hell was going on with me??? I had no problem with confronting people, but it was not very positive as it was always in a cruel or snooty manner where I won. I was sick of losing I guess. I had always lost.... fuck that.

Luckily with therapy and med changes things did change after awhile including my job at the time. I found that a special ed. teacher was abusive. She was investigated and the union took up her side even though I paid dues. I was a black sheep again and taken from my place where I taught and put in a place where I would fail. I resigned and made it clear why. I had stood up for human rights. It made me angry, but it was good.

Now If there's something worth fighting for, I'm obsessed and I'm on it. That's just the way I am and I can't stop. It rattles my cage when there are wrongs that I have the power to fix. I know I can do it..... I think.

I'm still working on my own personal wildlife cause, always guiding my daughter as best I can and being honest always at her level, and trying to deal with this hazy world I live in.

The most recent "fight" was for our health in the environment we are living in (me and my daughter). We won. I did all of my research, called in the Dept. of Health (what lazy ass slackers those chicks are), and had a nice sit-down with my landlord and explained all of the problems and my legal rights. He didn't like the idea of us leaving. Now he's working on it all. I was scared of doing this, but I did it. I got something done.

It took me well over a year to get my balls up to confront my landlord and stand up for my rights. It worked out well. He didn't have a leg to stand on and I sat him down and went over my list and my rights. He said that he didnt' want to lose such good tenants as me and my daughter and apologized. I think he has got to action very quickly also because of the threat of withholding rent. Now things are happening. I faced fear and fought.

I have been noticing in my war against anxiety that I have been having more difficulty leaving the house, more stomach aches and more panic attacks. I had been doing my regular medicinal routine with my herbal stuff added. Then I went to see my shrink. I should have called him last Saturday as I had to cut a dose of
Wwellbutrin in half.

I had complained at my last appointment about my anxiety going up and he suggested that I work with a therapist. I just don't feel like it. I feel like I need a mentor or an advocate at this point as I'm finding it harder to concentrate, remember things, and get phone calls and paperwork done without help. I have not asked for help either. I wish things were more clear. Then I told him about the panic attacks and the situational reasons I might be more panicky.
I asked my shrink if I was on a lot of meds and he told me that I was. But, he increased my dose of Welbutrin by double saying that it would help my concentration, energy, memory and anxiety. He said that I should take the regular dose in the morning and an early afternoon dose. This appointment was on March 10th.

On March 19th I went into the drug store and spoke to my kindly pharmacist and told him about my dizziness, electrical-like shocks to my head, tremors in my neck and head, light headedness, lack of concentration, lethargy, etc. I told him to check out the increase and sure enough he told me that I should go back to the regular dose of wellbutrin and he didn't know why my shrink would prescribe so much to me when I was already on another antidepressant. He said that I shouldn't take my afternoon dose and I should be feeling better in a couple days.
This came as a relief. All of this was preventable. My shrink never should have doubled that dose. I could have ended up in seizures or worse with serotonin syndrome. What a pompous asshole. Why would he have done that? I really don't understand. It seems like you just have to pay attention to everything because the doctors don't even do it for you.

That extra medication could have made me even worse very quickly if I added even more caffeine to my day which I had started doing... indicative would have been a seizure or multiple seizures and a quick hitch to the hospital.

Now it's March 26th and I still have not wanted to call my shrinky dink. I'm feeling betrayed. I am still having little dizzy spells and they seem to be calmed by taking a form of diazepam called Klonopin/clonazepam. It is something that relaxes muscles and stuff in the brain. It's some good stuff. I remember another irresponsible doctor letting me take up to 12 mg. of Ativan a day when I first started taking medications for my anxiety and depression. What the Hell was up with that? No wonder people are getting hooked on pain meds and other things. One of the best things I got off was an SSRI called Paxil. When I did that I lost 20 pounds and felt much better in a lot of ways.

I need to get a second opinion and soon. I've got phone calls to make and everything in this household relies on me. That means my daughter needs me. I am the  person she looks to and she needs to be able to count on me. I cannot end up in the psyche ward again especially because of idiotic and preventable mistakes by my stupid shrink.

Even doctors should be held accountable. I am angry but once again I'm scared to speak up. This is my life and I'm breathing. I must advocate for myself. We all must step up to the plate if we are to be there for others as well.

I called and left a message for my shrinky dink about what had happened and you know, nothing happened at all. No call back... notta. Pathetic. No response. Just another number.

I don't really know what to do. The anxiety is getting worse and I am even more stuck in my house and getting lonelier. It has been getting even more difficult to do the simplest of things like go to the grocery store alone, or go to the school even. I am too paranoid.

There's a lot of stuff going on now. I have to re-find my de-stressing tool box again. I just can't remember where I left it.

Why? Patterns of Insanity....

I thought I was doing really well. I had done my personal inventory and came up with things I didn't like about myself, but decided that the ugly could be replaced by goodness. I was feeling really good about this. It seemed like my anxiety was down and I was feeling pretty good about myself and life. My daughter had just finished In Home Therapy and we felt like a team.

Then a few weeks ago I hurt my back. It was lame. I was just doing my regular work out with the calisthenics, hand weights, stretches and cardio in my living room. Then BAM! I twisted something funny. It was all over the next day. I could barely bend over, twisting really hurt and when I walked or sat it felt like a a bunch of nerves running from my lower back and down my right leg decided to make jabs all the way down! FUCK! So it began that day with the lower back, then the nerves running down the leg. I tried doing some stretches to try to get the "kink" out, but that only seemed to aggravate things. Then at one point my whole right leg went numb. I was thinking that I really cannot have this happen.

Now I was starting to get pissed off at myself. I had already sprained my ankle in November of 2010, but had to wear a brace on that ankle whenever I had to exercise or exert any pressure on it because I was still being inflicted with pain. Had I broken it, it would probably have been healed by now. I was getting along with the brace and now this!!! I couldn't get comfortable and I didn't want to give up anything as I am a hermit and do not get out too much.

Later in the day it was like a bomb dropped in my brain and all of the neurons were firing at each other at once. There was a war going on in there and it felt horrible. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. What the fuck was this about? Yeah, I was hurting, but why this? I was breathing heavily (not relaxed breathing), sweating a little bit, my chest felt tight, and I was feeling like there was no way out! I was having a panic attack!!! It had been so long, but it was happening! Why should I be having one of these again? Hadn't I had enough? Apparently not!

About a half hour after feeling like I was going to die if I couldn't get out of my brain or my skin or something, I was finally able to drink a glass of water and breathe more relaxed. Okay, so I had had a panic attack. This was actually quite difficult to fathom seeing that my last one was over a year ago. I didn't think I was panicky and I had such a positive attitude. I was even trying to figure out ways to exercise and get around this pain in my back. Maybe this was all saying something to me. It must be a mind-body thing. SLOW DOWN!

Then I realized that my daughter had been talking more about Daddy. Oh crap... it was an "anniversary period." Every year for the past four, my daughter has had severe behavioral issues right around or on my birthday. Oh FUCK IS MORE LIKE IT!!! Now I was getting the picture. It was not only her little anniversary period, it was also mine. I was expecting shit to hit the fan and I hadn't even realized it. My shoulders were already tight and I had a knot in my neck. This was what it was all about.

The "anniversary period" has something to do with the realization my daughter had in 2008 that her Daddy was really dead and magic couldn't bring him back. She was four years old. There's usually the other period of time that occurs in early November... it's like a build-up of sorts. There are all of these signs that I am starting to recognize. It's the attitude, the body language, the "I miss Daddy" talk, and the "If Daddy was around I would have more fun," and the "You're lazy and you're mean" crap I get. Then it gets to the point where there's just plain old disrespect then the violence toward myself. She kind of loses herself and becomes this other person and I can see it in that devilish smile. I can see it in those eyes that have somehow mysteriously darkened. My daughter is no longer there and there is no reasoning with this now 4 or 5 year old demon. She is going to try to hurt me or worse. My daughter is actually going to be 8 in April.

So there's all of this going on. My, oh my! I'm sick of therapy, In Home Therapy, Mentors and all of this stuff. We just finished with IHT at the end of December. The holidays seem to bring that anniversary show on. I thought that maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Well, it's probably not as bad as the years prior; after all, she's not trying to kill me anymore and she talks more about what's going on with her feelings.

Well, I started to notice even more that I was feeling like I was not only walking on eggshells around my girl, but it seemed more like they were hot coals and I was doing this very strange dance all around her. This is a very awkward dance and it's to try not to upset the little princess. But, that means that I'm letting her rule the roost. I decided that I couldn't do that. No more. But this didn't happen until after a med change and the last violent outburst. Talk about insanity! Yes, the Dept. of Mental Health has had a few calls from me in the past.... usually the same kind of calls.

My shrink upped one of my antidepressants and said that it should help with the anxiety. I decided to up my trazadone to 100 mg. so I would not wake up all through the night like I had been on the 75, but I really didn't want to go from 1 1/2 mg. of clonazepam to 2 mg. right away. The less medication the better. At that appointment I was asking about ECT again. ECT is Electro Convulsive Treatment. It's mini seizures that are induced by electricity to the brain. It's supposed to help severe depression. I was hoping that maybe it could wipe away a lot of anxiety too. I'm sick of living like this. I hate have this big shadow of angst over me every single day of my life. Even when I'm happy it's there. What's wrong with losing some of my memory? So what if I get a little bit fried. Sounds funny in a way.

I asked my shrink if that would help the anxiety and he told me that it wouldn't at all. He said it would help to decrease the depression. Yay. I was not thrilled in the least with this response. I wanted an easy way out. I have lived with Generalized Anxiety Disorder since I was a child. Then came PTSD, Depression, and Panic Disorder! I have worked with countless therapists, done my homework, and have tried many trials of medication. It only seemed fair that there might be a quick fix. But, this is life. We must work very, very, very, very hard to get past challenges.

I can't write any further. I will write more when I'm not feeling the need for a small glass of vino and some dark chocolates. Blah! There's just so much more. If you're curious you can even ask...

Mental Management

Anger... that is what I carry with me. It is disguised as many things. It is like the chameleon that changes colors with its background. It is always there, but most people can't see it.

I can see it. I can feel it. Sometimes it is brought out into the open by a simple phrase that triggers something within me. Other times it's just the way I feel. Sometimes fear or sadness brings it out.... because I don't like those feelings. I feel more powerful when I am angry. Volatile. Volcanic... Explosive! Sometimes others just looking at me funny bring out the demon side of my anger. It runs deep within my veins.

Anger can be a useful and effective tool when one is taught how to use it properly, but when it is volatile and used to hurt, it doesn't go away.

Usually the biggest victim to anger is the one who holds onto it so tightly. I feel sad for victims of anger... those who are hurt psychologically, verbally and physically. I only really hurt myself. I don't like confrontation. It happens though. I have only hurt myself..I am very angry. I don't believe in suicide for me. I believe in mercy though.

Don't get me wrong. I am happy for many reasons. Life is a gift. Life is good. I am grateful for this gift of being alive and all of the many experiences I am able to have and the abilities I have been given. I am also lucky to have emotions. I am I'm capable of having angry feelings as well as happy, sad, excited, and more.

But anger is one that I just can't kick. Most feelings are dealt with and go away, but this one just sticks to the bones of my brain. It is not leaving yet. It clings like plastic wrap and sticks as if its nasty boots are stuck in the depths of grimy mud in my head.

Despite many years of therapy and defining what I am angry about and all the triggers and what to avoid, I am finding that I need to read more about how to handle this emotion. I must become more effective so I do not feel powerless and pathetic after dealing with another angry person like my Mother.

The angriest person I have ever known is my Mother. She has been spoiled all of her life and usually gets her way. I don't know why her own family lets her get away with this. I seem to be the only one who calls her on it and I, in return, am the "imperfect" daughter. There is always fault found with me. This makes me even angrier. It's one of those things that must have started in my childhood years.

Boundaries.

I am so sick of this. What an old and boring story. Someone ought to shoot their eye out. Not really. Lobotomy.